Five Stages and Two Months
by ALovelyLacuna
Summary: John goes through the five stages of grief after the death of Sherlock.


**A/N So I have all these Sherlock feels and nowhere to put them so have a fic, enjoy!**

Denial

He could not be dead. The man who gave him everything, saved him from a life of perpetual mediocrity, could not be gone. Sherlock was too smart to die. Too Sherlock to accept that even death had beaten him, he would hang on from sheer willpower. John himself had seen his body fall, arms flailing, not graceful but desperate. He had heard the crack of his head hitting the pavement, and feel a similar one in his heart. The crimson blood soaked his locks and the light dulled from his icy eyes, his pale skin in striking contrast to the trickle of the thick liquid on his face. John felt his best friend's pulse, hoping for something, _anything,_ but all that was there was the harsh reminder of mortality. Yet still he believed, he hoped. He had to, if he gave up it would destroy him, living without Sherlock was not an option, not anymore. John had visited the grave, the monument to his life and death, he had not been a fraud, he didn't believe him, it was a lie. The detective had spent his goodbye on a lie, it had to be a lie, John still believed in Sherlock Holmes. So he had visited the grave with Mrs. Hudson at his side, heart ready to burst and feeling a pain that was more emotional than physical. Sherlock Holmes did not deserve to die, he could not be dead because that wasn't fair. Death could not catch the great Sherlock Holmes, it was impossible.

Anger

A teacup shattered against the wall of the flat. A week after Sherlock's death and he was feeling again, he had gone numb after a day, it was better than the sadness that welled up in his heart and eyes. Now though, now he was feeling, and he was _angry_. Angry at Sherlock for not being here and stopping the charade, angry at the world for smearing his name, angry at whatever cosmic force let this happen, angry at Moriarty, for this was his fault, and most of all, mad at himself, because no matter how much he wanted to he could do nothing to stop the false demise of the detective. Even John himself, the war medic, the _doctor_ could not save his dying friend, could not stop the crack of his skull or calm his pinwheeling arms. He could not restart his heart or fix him, he could not even give him a proper goodbye. Another cup shattered. He just did not care anymore, he was so angry and it hurt so much, he had never felt like this.

"Why! Why Sherlock? For just once stop proving you're fucking better than all of us, that you're more than a person. Come home!" John yelled, as loud and as hard as his rough throat would let him. He dropped to his knees. "You are so _stupid_."

Bartering

It was funny, trying to make deals with gods you didn't even believe in. John had no idea how many deities he had promised his life to, along with various possessions. Sherlock had to be alive, he was desperate. He had went to the local church, begging the pastor for things he couldn't really articulate, giving up after a bit. Still nothing had happened. He lay awake on his bed at night, just staring into the dark expanse that was his ceiling, begging and bartering for Sherlock's life. For the decay of his body to be undone along with the fall. He begged that Sherlock had been more than just a man, had fooled the world and cheated death. No Sherlock ever came, no sign, not a text, not a call. John had began to beg for miracles, looking in all the wrong and right places, searching up and down for the right kind of cosmic deity to answer his prayers and fulfill his hopes. No gods came, no miracles, no Sherlock.

Depression

John had given up, plain and simple. The little voice telling him that Sherlock was dead had gotten stronger and won out. His inner demons had consumed him and all the hope inside him. He had nothing to live for, Sherlock had given him everything and taken it when he had died. Very rarely did he leave the house and all he ever ate were the daily meals forced him to take. The doctor was wasting away into a hollow shell of himself, and he could just not muster up the feeling to care. He wanted this limbo of nothing to be over, he wanted all of it to be over. It would be so simple too, he could take a jump, overdose on a few pills, he was a doctor, those would be easy enough to get. John could go quietly and painlessly, just a month after Sherlock.

He had bought the pills that day, planning to take them in the evening. The heart inside him would stop beating within the hour, blood would slow down before pooling into the lowest place in his body. It would stop. The pain, the feeling of life still rushing by, the world still turning. He had even gotten the glass of water ready, the pill resting on his tongue, but he did not swallow, just spit it out into the corner of his room, the bottle of the rest following. What if Sherlock was still alive? What if he needed him? John would stay, if only for the small sliver of chance that Sherlock was alive.

Acceptance

Two months. Two months without Sherlock, two months lacking any perfect deductions, any sharp tongued and sarcastic retorts. He still missed him, with all his being, but he was okay now. He was truly okay. It may not have been good, but it was enough to get him going, he was getting better. John began to integrate himself into daily life, he still cried at night, still ran his hands fondly over the violin once played by his friend's hands, but he was okay. He had even got a job, and would help Lestrade on a case here and there. Sherlock's presence still lingered, it could not be erased by time or even spring cleaning, but that was nice, John liked that. Sherlock was dead, he had not cheated death, he was not coming back, and no matter how much that hurt, that was okay. The small bit of time he got to spend with him was worth all the pain of him leaving. John had accepted that nothing was permanent, mortality still chipped away at everyone's life, whittling it down, and he had relearned how to live with an absence of Sherlock. Some days were hard and some days he believed that he could see a glimpse of him, but then it was gone. Those were the hardest, when he felt that little bit of hope slip away along with the end of a scarf, but really, he was okay. John was okay and that was enough for now.

**A/N Okay, obviously I have too many John feels. I ship Sherlock and John in a bromance of epic proportions, but if you'd like, ship 'em romantically. Too many feels from this show and tumblr doesn't help so sorry, I had to write it! If you review I'll reply to it, and if you'd like to request a story or give me a prompt, just message or review! I may write it! Thanks for reading lovelies! **


End file.
